The Resilience
by AltoidRck
Summary: She finds him at dusk, buried beneath the rubble of buildings. Slightly AU, possibly contains spoilers.


A/n: Thought I'd try my hand at writing something a bit more tragic. Characters might seem a bit OOC, but please remember that I'm trying to portray both Gin and Rangiku at the end of the line. They are in the Confrontation of all confrontations, attempting a desperate scramble for answers and peace before it's too late.

Warnings: Slightly graphic imagery and language. Deathfic.

Please enjoy and review! :D

Disclaimer: Bleach belongs to Tite Kubo.

* * *

The Resilience

_Once, before the war and Soul Society and Aizen, before everything went to Hell, she believed she needed him._

"_I'll be back in three days," he promised, one hand already on the door handle, "Lock the door and don't let anyone in."_

"_What if you take longer than three days?" she demanded, pouting slightly._

"_You'll be okay."_

"_Not if you're not here!"_

_He cocked his head slightly in amusement as she turned her head away quickly, an embarrassed blush blossoming on her cheeks. It deepened in hue as she heard him pad softly back over, after a moment of silence. _

_Indignant, she shoved at the long arms that encircled her waist, but his hold only tightened. _

"'_You'll be fine, Ran," he whispered, cool breaths against her ear, "Ya always are."_

_And then he's gone, the door closing silently._

_He's right of course. _

_She didn't need him, and years later she'll wonder if that's what made him ever come back at all._

_**~.~.~**__  
_

She finds him at dusk, buried beneath the rubble of buildings.

"Shit, shit, shit, shit," she whispers breathlessly, already crashing to her knees, "Hold on, I've got you. I'vegotyouI'vegotyouI'vegotyou…"

She doesn't know who she's trying to convince. Only the top of his bloody silver head can be seen pass the splintered wood and glass shards. He's lying face down, limbs in an indiscernible mess around him, and the upper half of his right arm is sandwiched stiffly between two pieces of metal, like a macabre surrender.

He isn't moving at all.

With worn, scar-marred hands, she shovels savagely away at the debris, breaking nails and bloodying palms without a blink, her own heartbeats deafening her ears.

The fear is raw, unbridled and unnatural as it floods through her system. It strangles her lungs, forcing her breaths to come in gasps, leaking pass her vision in a white light.

Any other time, the feeling would've shocked her. She wasn't the hysterical type, had never even felt afraid before and part of her had thought that she never would.

Not even on that day, forever ago, when she was nothing but a faceless orphan waiting for death. There was only peace then, acceptance and a hollow, nearly bottomless type of calm that settled gently into her bony chest. Only peace, never fear.

Yet right now_, _when the battles are over and no one has won, when the world has so succeeded in tearing itself apart, all traces of calm have left her, dissolved into air and swiped away by wind. There is only formless dread that motivates her to tear away the wooden beams, to reach for the wreck of her life crushed beneath, because right now, from where she is, he looks _dead_ and there's not a fiber within her that can make peace with _that_.

Not yet.

"Don't you die on me. Don't you _dare_," she snarls, bleeding hands still quivering, impaled with splinters, "Goddamn it, Gin, if you think you can just die _now_, without even a single fucking explanation…"

The words shrivel up in her throat and the only sound that escapes her lips are ragged pants instead. In truth, she doesn't know what she'll do and though part of her has been preparing for this moment since the day this godforsaken war started, it is still nearly unimaginable.

Because Gin…has always been _there_.

And Rangiku still can't believe this will ever change. It is how they've lived their whole lives—century after century of hide and seek, secret meetings and not-love kisses.

Even now, she half-expects he'll lift himself from the ground, brushing off his clothes like it's nothing, virtually unharmed. Half-wishes he'll grin idiotically and still be the powerful man she's known her entire life.

Only he doesn't. Doesn't speak. Doesn't move.

Rangiku stops thinking for a while after that, unable to function pass the simple thought of digging him out. She doesn't know how long she's crouched there, only that it feels like five eternities later before she finally shoves aside the last of the wooden shafts. By then, her hands are already criss-crossed with cuts and searing with pain.

She barely notices, doesn't even pause to wipe her forehead, before she's gathering him up into her arms.

He follows the action bonelessly, his head lolling sideways to fall against her chest. His arm has been mangled, twisted viciously enough that it's already half off. The white curve of bone pierces grotesquely through the side of his forearm. Fresh wounds have soaked his white coat into a dark crimson color and she can feel, vaguely horrified, as it leaks onto the front of her hakama. His skin is paler than a sheet and sundry indigo bruises mark the side of his face.

A thin trail of blood runs from his hairline to his chin.

Rangiku wipes it away dumbly, somehow smearing more blood across his cheek instead, and doesn't know what else to do.

_He's dead_, a voice says from the back of her mind, _He's dead, He's dead, He's dead, He's dead…_

For an instant, she nearly believes it, nearly starts crying or screaming or sitting there silently until she dies as well—comes dangerously close to finding out exactly who she'll become. Her hand tightens unconsciously on his shoulder as the oblivion descends before her eyes, hard enough that her knuckles turn white.

It is then that she feels it.

The soft, almost imperceptible gushes of air across her skin, the slightest shifting of his head, the smallest twitches in his fingers.

Rangiku has just enough time to wonder if she imagined it, before he's suddenly bursting with signs of life.

His head shifts noticeably this time, his fingers twitching again as well, and a painful groan slips pass his lips.

It's the most beautiful sound Rangiku has ever heard.

"Bastard," she mumbles to herself, almost in awe, "You _bastard_."

She suddenly wants to lie down, the relief so potent within her system that it leaves her exhausted.

_It doesn't matter_, the same voice says again, twisting across her brain, _He's dying. _ _His wounds are fatal. He's not going to make it. _

Rangiku ignores it deftly.

His eyes start fluttering next and she leans closer almost instinctively, as if to catch the beauty. She can count on one hand the number of times she's seen Gin's eyes.

Slowly, she watches his eyelids peel back, lets herself be washed over by the two pools of pale blue underneath.

He blinks groggily, as if waking from sleep, face muddled.

"R-Rangiku?" he rasps, hoarse and confused.

She stares, nodding weakly.

For a minute he stares back, before clarity slices through the confusion. A surprised sound slips pass her lips as his limbs suddenly jerk, his good hand flying down to clamp onto his stomach.

"Stop," she orders after a moment, finding her voice and places a firm hand on his arm, "Don't move."

He looks up at her strangely for a moment, like he'd forgotten she was there, before his eyes are disappearing behind crescent slits.

"Rangiku," he says again, smiling stupidly, as if he's not a broken mess in her lap.

She responds by clutching him closer, pressing all his broken pieces to her chest.

"Don't move, Gin," she repeats.

Gently, she pries his good hand away from where it is nearly hooked into his abdomen. A hole the size of her fist is revealed under his shaky palm. He coughs once harshly, giving a careful glance.

"Ya look so afraid._"_

The words seem meaningless to her and she panics harder when the blood suddenly speeds in flow. Her hands are stained with the substance as she growls at him once more to stay quiet damn it, you're going to kill yourself! Gin only smiles again, softer and gentler, and Rangiku feels like something within has froze and split in half.

"Don't be scared,"Gin wheezes out, his body furiously trying to function even with a massive hole blown through his middle, "Ya know I hate that. Am I so terrifying now? Is the sight of me so horrible? Ya never were scared before, Rangiku."

Part of Rangiku wants to point out the irony of his words, that she _is_ afraid and he's the only reason that she's this way at all, while the other feels like lashing out, as angry as a burnt cat, and ask what made him think he deserved anything anymore.

But in the end she does neither.

"Didn't I tell you to stop talking already, idiot?" her voice is thick and rough, "Save your energy."

With trembling fingers, she presses into the wound, trying to staunch the flow.

A weak gasp escapes him at the unanticipated pain and Rangiku swallows vainly at the cold lump in her throat. Her hands are sticky with his blood, its moist texture coating her fingers and sinking into the lines of her palms. Rangiku's stomach flips at the horrific sensation and after a few moments is suddenly struck by a morbid curiosity.

Shakily, she lifts her hands.

The first thing her mind can register is that the blood is endless. It blankets her skin with its bright red hue and is nearly up to her elbows. Parts of it have browned and caked onto the sides of her hands and parts are fresh and warm in the cold of night.

The second thing is that it is not merely blood alone. Something warm and squishy slides down her palm, it is a white-grayish tone even covered in blood. They are all over, rushing out with the rivers of blood, increasing in size and number as he continues to bleed.

And bleed and bleed and bleed…

In a moment of horrifying realization, Rangiku knows that it is the bits and pieces of his intestines. Guts that splatter out and out like a broken hose, flowing from him to her as if they are wires—so he can stain her as well, into that filthy shade of evil that he had been ruined with centuries ago.

It suddenly occurs to Rangiku that she has been trying to push Gin's innards back inside him through the hole. It then subsequently occurs to her, that Gin is going to die, because no one can save him, especially her.

Gin cranes his head weakly up at her, and though there are no words exchanged, he grins at her in a kind of understanding that nearly rips the bubbling screams from her throat.

"Ya hate me now, Rangiku? 's okay, I'd hate myself too. This isn't how I wanted it to end, if it means anythin' ta ya anymore. Not like this. Believe me, Ran, I really didn't mean for it ta…"

The words pour from his lips in a torrent, rushing into an almost frantic jumble, as if he is panicking that he won't get all his words out in time and die a man with things unfinished. Rangiku is shaking, her lips have dried and cracked, does nothing but hold him close with her gore-slathered hands and tells him to shut up again.

He doesn't listen, of course. He never has.

Gin chuckles quietly and suffers a violent coughing spasm. Rangiku pulls whatever shreds are left of his white overcoat tighter across him.

"I don't hate you," she says, quietly, almost a whisper as she settles him higher on her chest.

"Again with the lies, didn't ya know that lyin' is bad fer ya Rangiku? Could be the end of ya one day," Gin tsks and shakes his head, slightly dazed by the motion, "I know that better than anyone."

_I'm not lying, _she wants to say, but can not seem to muster the thought into words, and instead simply stares at him, slightly gloss-eyed.

Again, he looks at her carefully, observant as always even now. It seems to her, that some parts of him will never change, even if everything else has.

"Rangiku, Rangiku," he murmurs quietly, almost disappointed, his voice weakening with each word, "Ya haven't changed a bit."

Cerulean eyes blink in distracted surprise and for a moment Rangiku wonders with semi-seriousness if Gin has learned to read minds as well.

"Would it have been better if I had?" she asks, her voice sounding colder than she had expected.

"Yes," he is whispering now, his breathing raspy and quiets immediately after the word. He's starting to fade, his smile has become droopy and Rangiku's blood begins to run cold.

It takes a few minutes more of deep, painful breaths before he can continue.

"Ya would not 'ave followed the likes o' me."

And there, in a string of words, lies their curse, bared to them both. Gin in the front, Rangiku in the back, ever since the very beginning.

Rangiku blinks and opens her mouth, but doesn't know what there is to say. And a second later it doesn't even matter as Gin starts to cough again. It is a terrible fit this time and the soft coughs quickly turn into hacks. Before long, there are trails of crimson dripping from his lips.

_Internal bleeding_, Rangiku notes, vaguely horrified, and feels his whole frame, willowy thin, shaking as his good hand flies up blindly to his mouth, trying to cover the spray.

She watches emptily and can not help but think that _this_ is the man she has been chasing—from one place and life to the next. This is the man she could not let go of.

This pale, dying man, who once, ages ago, dangled a persimmon to her mouth and gave her the world.

She realizes somewhat remotely that she _should _hate him. It is all that he deserves and perhaps, it is true and some part of her heart has truly hated him all along.

But there is still only a slight pause, before her bloodied hands are rubbing soft circles into his back. Upon the wreckage of the battlefield, his rattling coughs fill the air and echo loudly, but Rangiku doesn't care. There are no more enemies or allies or wars.

There are only corpses to hear them now anyway.

And so she waits patiently, until a short eternity has passed and he has finally settled again. He looks even paler than before now, his skin taking on a translucent tone. With a couple of ragged breaths, Gin removes his blood-smeared hand to reveal equally blood-smeared lips.

He gazes at it for a second, almost wincing at the sight, before letting his hand drop to the ground like dead meat. His head lolls weakly backwards onto Rangiku's arm. She can tell how much it hurts to breathe.

Gin's frowns confusedly, when a warm hand suddenly cups his cheek, blood-caked fingers wandering their way up his temple and through sleek locks of silvery-white hair. She strokes him gently, until Gin sends her a pained grin that says far too much.

_Why did ya follow a man like me?_

"Are you saying I shouldn't have?" she whispers out loud in answer, her voice dangerously low and taking upon a threatening edge, "Are you telling me that you were not worth it?"

Gin gazes up at her, smile gone.

"I was never…worth you…Rangiku," he manages, panting harshly, "Never."

"Bullshit," her fingers stop within his hair, "That is not your decision to make."

And even after all these years of killing and trusting and betraying, he is still amused by her.

"Don't…be so bossy… Rangiku…you'll scare…all your…suitors away."

He grins at her wryly and Rangiku shoots him a severe look.

"To Hell with them," she replies, completely uncaring, "I don't want any of them anyway. What I want is…"

She trails off abruptly, but Gin gives her a knowing glance. Gin knows of course. He has always known. And now at the end, some dark terrifying part of Rangiku wonders if that is why he left in the first place.

"You…should go," he mumbles suddenly, gazing up at her, the edges of his smile strained with tension.

She almost snorts.

"Yeah, sure," she says, having a near hysterical urge to laugh, "I'm not leaving."

Gin, though seemed without disagreement, still rasps, "That…lil' captain…of yers…should go…check on 'im…Aizen-taichou…can be…damn cruel."

"He's dead," she replies blankly, not that saying it out loud makes her feel any better.

Hitsugaya's reiatsu had disappeared a little over an hour ago. Rangiku figures it is only the shock that has kept her numb for this long.

Tilting her head, her eyes slowly sweep across the expanse of the battlefield, the debris blanketing the ground. Every part of her recoils at the thought of her little captain, crushed underneath, and wonders somewhat emptily of how long it'll take to dig his body out. To dig _all _their bodies out.

_This war was lost, _a voice in the back of her mind laments, _by all of us._

And Gin is silent.

"Aizen's dead too," he states after a moment, coldly, not trying to sympathize.

There's no comparison there and they both know it.

She'll never forget the moment his reiatsu vanished, like a raging wild fire doused out instantly, and a part of her, that is all shinigami, laughs viciously in triumph—hopes with all her soul that his head has been cracked open and all the evil within has been destroyed as well.

"I'm not leaving," she says again, over the cackling in her head.

He sighs then, as if exasperated, lips thin and colorless.

"Rangiku…don't do this," Gin whispers, suddenly looking tired and worn and nothing like the Gin she knows, "Not fo' me. Ya deserve…so much better. Haven't ya…gotten that…yet? How long…are ya going ta…let me…suffocate ya?"

His voice fades near the end, but the plea is there, still powerful, still clawing at her heart.

She stares at him, the blood slipping through the cracks of her fingers, staining the edges of her sleeves as one thought suddenly rips across her mind.

He doesn't want her to follow.

"Why, Gin?" she asks, almost hears a part of her shatter as trembling words spill forth, unstoppable, "Why did you…? Where were you trying to go? How could you _do_ this? Why…"

_Why did this happen?_

He doesn't answer for a long time, his gaze sliding sideways, leaving only the deafening silence of a godforsaken war to fill in the space. Rangiku isn't sure how long she sits there with the sounds of battle in her ears, before he looks at her again.

"I'm sorry," he says. Repeats again, because there really is no answer.

Because the reason has been lost in the sea of his lies long ago and that simple apology is the closest she'll ever get to the truth.

Suddenly, she feels like screaming.

Gin coughs again, so hard this time that he nearly folds inwards, blood trickles like rivers down his lips. A cold, sharp feeling begins sinking in her chest—jagged edges prodding at the ruins of her heart. It brings no comfort this time, no peace. Numbly, she wonders if this is what the end feels like.

He collapses against her shoulder, and it looks as if it takes all his strength just to lift his head again.

"Ran…giku," he whispers, eyes blinking open again, nearly in question, nearly afraid.

She doesn't reply. Wordlessly, she slides her hand down to the side of his face. Keeps it there when he leans into her touch.

She tilts his head gently, locking eyes with him. And though she knows this won't work, that there's no point and it's utterly _futile_, she tries anyway one last time. She has to try.

"You can have me for as long as you want," she tells him, her voice clear and ringing, "You can have me forever."

_Forever and ever and ever._

He smiles and for one heart-in-throat moment she believes he's accepted, but the thought is soon crushed when he shakes his head, almost sadly.

Because he doesn't want her. Had _never_ wanted her.

And he's grinning even now, like he always is, a row of blood-stained teeth curved around crescent lips. Like everything isn't all about to end. Like this is just another of his stupid little games and the only damage done will be a little bruising of the pride. Like next time he would hold her close and capture her lips and tell her all the things that he will never say. Like there is still a next time to anticipate.

"What am I suppose to do?" she asks emptily, "What do you expect me to do?"

He gives her a long careful expression, as if trying to take her in, his eyes tracing every contour of her face.

Almost bemusedly, he grazes the edges of his fingertips to the right side of her abdomen. His touch is cold, and the pallid tone of his fingers in startling contrast with the pink scars surrounding her hip. The look he gives her is pure Gin, the glimmer of a young boy's eyes returning, and neatly rips her heart to shreds.

With slow deliberate lips, he forms his silent answer.

It is only when his hand rises up to her face that she realizes she's crying. Rangiku clutches his hand as it brushes her tears away, intertwining their fingers.

"Gin," she whispers, voice trembling awfully, "Gin, I…"

She can't say it. The words keep dying in her throat.

He still understands. He always does.

With the barest of motions, he manages a nod.

And then doesn't move again.

Rangiku breathes hard, trying not to gasp or scream or vomit, even as hot, blinding tears begin snaking down her face. She can't do this. In the ruins of the war, there is only her alone in the dusk and _she can't do this._

_You'll be okay, Rangiku, _a different voice lilts softly, from the back of her mind, _Ya always are._

Because she doesn't need him. Had _never _needed him.

And he had known it too. It was why he returned to her each time, without fail.

And in the end, she knows, it was why he loved her as well.


End file.
